


the ill

by brunchclub



Series: snippets of the world [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Sickfic, Technoblade & Wilbur Soot Twins, also I tried entirely to write this from one perspective for once (techno) :D, and fluff, and then I started adding headcanons, dadza gratuitous dadza, its still good tho :), started out as a sickfic turned into a sickfic + injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunchclub/pseuds/brunchclub
Summary: when dadza falls sick it’s up to his very caretaking-inexperienced sons to take care of him. along the way they discover a few things they’ve been hiding from each other.ft. clipped wings headcanon, wilbur remembers headcanon, the Voices, etc :D—“Maybe philza angst where shortly after they're all brought together he gets sick? Like that first time realization that "oh, he can get hurt" and where they would normally turn to him for what to do they have to try and help as best they can with out guidance?” - Lo
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), familial only you weirdchamps -
Series: snippets of the world [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2049372
Comments: 40
Kudos: 684





	the ill

**Author's Note:**

> “Maybe philza angst where shortly after they're all brought together he gets sick? Like that first time realization that "oh, he can get hurt" and where they would normally turn to him for what to do they have to try and help as best they can with out guidance?” - Lo
> 
> thanks for the request!! as always I am a sucker for dadza angst so if that gets requested I usually do that first! you can request on my fic on my page! :D 
> 
> comments are always always appreciated! if you like my work, please consider it! <3 enjoy

Techno was cold.

That was saying something.

Even in the middle of the Arctic, he tended to run warm; some Nether blood presenting itself in his body, internal temperature high to match the climate he’d been born into. Still, when he slipped on a pair of socks — to avoid the nasty possibility of a splinter sprouting from the wood of his home lodging itself in him — and stepped onto the floor, he shivered, a chill crawling up his spine. He frowned at himself and the temperature in the mirror next to his bed, sluggishly pulling his hair up into a low bun. He didn’t have any more energy to devote to plaiting it; that responsibility would fall to a member of his family eventually, anyway. 

He crept down the stairs to investigate the cold, mindful of the others, who had to have been sleeping. Even his younger twin, still ghostly and transparent enjoyed a facsimile of sleep during the long hours of the night, probably floating in Tommy’s room. He was grateful for the newness of the stairs; they kept from creaking as he stalked down to the first floor, where the fireplace crackled merrily.

Or where it was  _ supposed _ to crackle merrily.

The pit laid bare, devoid of any flame; he squinted to see with the aid of the moon through the windows, double-checking that he hadn’t somehow missed an ember. 

The netherrack lying at the bottom was still there; the flame should have been as well. No stray water dampened his socks; and no one from their abode would have purposefully extinguished the fire. Not when it was keeping the house at a safe, comfortable climate.

He grabbed a flint and steel from the mantle, striking them together until a stray spark reignited the flames, casting a bright light over him. Techno averted his eyes with only a low grumble of complaint. He eyed it warily, daring it to go out again. When it only popped playfully in response, he stood from where he’d dropped into a crouch, tucking his arms against himself to ward off the lingering cold. 

He made his way back up the stairs, eyes narrowing shrewdly in thought. He was less susceptible to the chill than his two living companions; though he was more sensitive to it; he also ran hotter, alleviating some of the worry.

That concern fell more heavily, in his absence, onto his father and youngest brother.

He made his way down the hall, pausing at the first door on the right. He opened it, mindful of the squeaking hinges, peering into the darkness. 

His brother slept soundly, if not peacefully; though his eyebrows were furrowed somewhat, Techno preferred to think Tommy was simply squeezing his eyes shut against the gentle but insistent blue light his floating twin emitted, curled up towards the center of the room and snoozing.

He shut the door behind him softly, continuing further down the cabin’s top corridor. His own room lied past Tommy’s, the second on the right. He briefly debated the benefits of snagging his cloak from it, before dismissing the idea. The rooms were already beginning to warm, heated by the gentle radiance of the crackling fire below. He turned to his left, rapping his knuckles gently against the wooden door of his father’s room. No quiet snoring greeted his ears. He knocked again. 

“Phil?” He called. He refrained from raising his voice too loud, still carefully quiet due to his sleeping brothers just next door.

No response.

“I’m coming in.” He announced. Techno pushed down on the handle; it eased open, already there. He had failed to notice his knocking displacing the already slightly ajar door; he stepped back in surprise when it gently moved into the room, uninhibited by the latch.

He peeked into the room first, sticking his head through the gap created. The door was coming back to him now; stuck and pushed back on a blanket. He wrinkled his nose. Phil was usually rather tidy when it came to picking up his room; the messiest things to ever come out of it were the veritable blanket nests that he denied making; every morning he tried to straighten the hoard of covers he’d collected; and every night they returned to the circular ring Techno had come to recognize as his father’s bed.

Looking further into the room, lit by the beams of moon shuttled through the curtains, a trail of blankets led to the bed, which, as he suspected, was again more akin to a messy cocoon than anything. It lacked its creator though, tucked away in its mass.

He shuffled forward, squinting into the tangled mess, avoiding the blankets strewn across the wood. He poked at the slightly person-shaped lump only for it to sag and sink under his finger, flattening to the rest of the bed. Another sweep around the room revealed nothing. 

That was when Techno began to get nervous. 

Phil rarely left without a note or notice of some kind; and no open book nor sheet of paper stood out to him. 

He fled the room, not quite rushing, but not slow either; he made his way down the stairs again, checking once more for any quickly scrawled messages. He wracked his brain for any memory of his father’s plans; his recollection failed him, not bringing up a single instance.

He stood in the middle of the living room, huffing.

The fire leapt away from him, pressing against its stone enclosure. He stared at it.

Another set of stairs wound down to the basement. The wind from it buffeted the flame and wound around his legs, cooling them.

There were doors down there.

He walked cautiously to the lower floor, hand gripping the railing 

His eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. The only light in the room came through the slightly opened door, one of a set, at the bottom of the stairs, opposite the chests that lined the walls. It glistened on something, multiple somethings, scattered across the floor. Sharp glints poked at his eyes, but it was the soft edges of something that piqued his interest. The highlights rolled smoothly, never pausing. They were moving, almost, stretching outward.

He sniffled, clearing his nose of the woodsmoke and brimstone that had somewhat inhibited his sense of smell.

Beneath it all, pennies.

He nearly stepped back, the sharp, acrid smell almost causing his head to spin. He blinked away its bitterness; more concerned about the puddle he was sure was blood. He gripped the railing more tightly, carefully making his way downward.

Techno paused when in the dark, his foot hit something soft. The touch was light, familiar; nearly ticklish. He couldn’t identify it on a vague sense of feel alone; he crouched down to gently grab it, only for it to bend slightly under his touch.

_ “Fuck.” _ He swore, releasing the feather. The mass at the bottom of his stairs blocked his way; he didn’t care. He jumped over the side of the stairs only to land in a crouch and get up again, running the few steps left to get to his father. Without his shadow blocking the rest of the light, he saw the glass shattered on the floor and dodged it deftly, unwilling to let a small wound get in the way of him getting to his father.

Phil was pressed flat against the bottom of the stairs and the floor; an unnatural position that could never be misconstrued as pleasant. Wings were splayed like he’d tried to catch himself. His cheek was being indented by the stone; Techno picked his head up gently, probing around his hairline for the source of the wetness that glimmered on his cheek. He found a small abrasion; not enough to have caused the frankly worrying amount of blood to spread around him like it had. Satisfied at least for the moment with the condition of his head, Techno gently moved his father upright, grunting curses as he tried to shift him into position without jostling him too much. The wings made it exceedingly difficult; he didn’t want to pin them, but it was extra weight to carry.

“Wilbur!” He called. He shuddered at the way it echoed against the basement walls. The specter should have been able to hear him; since his untimely death, he’d seemed to have a knack for showing up when he was mentioned. He continued to struggle to lift the blonde. His position and feathers made it difficult, angled strangely.

It was unfamiliar. Techno had carried Phil maybe once before, with the help of his brothers; when they were far younger. Then he’d had his wings. Idly, Techno scanned over the feathers. He hadn’t seen them in use recently; probably the rules of the server coming into play. He’d once jumped too high on Carl; a visit from the green bastard followed, an accusation of flight. Probably one of his little gang had told him. He’d seemed reasonable after that, but it was clear the rule was steadfast. 

Techno had to wonder how much of that was genuine, knowing what the hunter had done to Tommy.

He was getting ready to call his twin again when a blue light cast itself against his front. He had to look away, briefly, before he peered under his eyelids to truly look at his brother. 

“Help me get him up.” He grunted. He returned his attention to the brunette only after a moment of silence. “Wil—“

“Oh, fuck.” His brother sagged in the air, tension creasing his face. “Is he—“ he outstretched an arm. The echo had almost faded from his voice. It sounded clearer than Techno had heard it in weeks. 

It sounded less like a ghost, and more like his  _ twin. _

“He’s, uh—“ he spared a glance to his father, watching as his chest rose and fell. “—I don’t know.” He admitted. “Help, now?”

The ghost made to clutch the railing. His hand barely clenched around it. In fact, it sunk a bit into it.

_ “Shit.”  _ He cursed. Techno didn’t know ghosts could pale. But he did, color becoming desaturated. His edges became almost fuzzy. “I can’t—  _ Techno—“ _

“Go— go wake up Tommy. Quick.”

A tight nod. He refocused. Wilbur became more defined when he bounded up the steps — as best he could, floating and all — presumably up to go wake the other blonde.

He forced his hands to relax where they’d clutched unwittingly at the fabric covering his father, unwilling to let his fury hurt another family member. He navigated them carefully underneath his dad’s arms, moving the blonde’s hands to cross over his chest. His stomach dropped at the long gash that ran across his palm, and the glint of something within it. That was going to need stitches.

He supposed it was the source of the blood; his hand was slick with it, arm covered where it had become more tacky and less fresh. 

Techno waited for his brother, impatient. Soon enough though, the unvaryingly heavy steps of his youngest sibling tromping through the house sounded, pausing for a moment when he peeked down the stairs.

“Wha’s goin’ on—“ he rubbed at his eyes, all big shirt and sleep shorts. Techno felt the same; his pajamas didn’t feel quite appropriate for the situation at hand, his lower half almost soaked with crimson and his hands shaking slightly with the adrenaline running through him. 

“—dad?” He snapped out of his trance, whipping his gaze back up to his brother. Said brother had moved to the middle of the steps, slowly, eyes scraping over the details of the scene.

“Come get his legs. We need to move him up.” He instructed. He readjusted his grip under his arms as Tommy came to grab his legs. “One, two—“ he lifted as the blonde did the same. 

They managed to maneuver him up the steps. 

“Where’s Wilbur?” Techno gently set his father’s head down on the table. Tommy only followed suit, looking a nauseous shade of pale.

“Not sure. Woke me up and left.” He choked out. “What happened?”

Techno moved around the table to light a small match; he swept around the kitchen, bringing the lanterns back alight before he snuffed it and returned, a little more satisfied with the light. 

He observed the state of the blonde with no small dread. His bangs had been plastered to his forehead, a mix of what he assumed to be the streaks of blood across his face and sweat. He was dressed for bed though. That ruled out his suspicion of some kind of travel. The shards of glass that had been sprinkled across the floor — a few pieces still within him — had belonged to him, a cup from the cabinet. 

The smell of blood was clearing, the sour, warm smell of a fever lingering beneath it.

“I—“ he faltered. “C’mere.”

Tommy shot him a confused look but complied, stepping closer to him. He only looked more puzzled when Techno stuck the back of his hand to his forehead in a facsimile of the way that his father had done for him before, keeping it there for a few seconds.

“Wha—“ 

“I don’t run at the same temperature as you do. And Wilbur’s a ghost.” He interrupted brusquely. He moved his other hand to rest against his father’s forehead.

The difference startled him into removing both hands, pulling them to himself.

Tommy jumped at the sudden action. 

_ “Fuck.” _ Techno cursed. “He’s got a fever, I think; he has to be sick.”

_ Or poisoned. _ One of the voices added, unhelpful. They had been unusually silent throughout the whole ordeal; perhaps waking from their slumber, or maybe knowing he wouldn’t tolerate the interruption. 

“No— Phil doesn’t  _ get _ sick.” Tommy asserted, though his usual self-assuredness was undermined by an obvious sliver of doubt. Techno felt the same. As far as he could remember, Phil  _ didn’t _ ever get sick. Molts didn’t count, nor allergies. Sick, feverish, coughing sick; he couldn’t remember it.

“That’s what I thought.” He muttered. But the evidence laid right in front of them, a strange rattle passing through parted lips as he breathed.

Silence passed between them.

“What do we do?” Tommy voiced the question he had been thinking about. The steps, at least the first ones, were clear.

“I have to take out the glass, clean the wound, probably stitch it,” he grimaced at his last instructions. His stitches were uneven at best on himself; probably a reason why they were so prone to breaking and leaving scars. He hadn’t practiced them in a while. Not with Phil there to stitch him up with steady, precise pulls. “and then…” 

_ Fight, fight, blood, dad, dadza, feel angry, righteous anger, e, a— _

They were pounding in his skull.

He trailed off, unsure.

“Then we cure him!” Tommy finished for him, slamming his fist into his palm. His eyes burned with determination.

Techno was just tired.

“Then we look after him, I guess.” He corrected him. For some reason the idea made him vaguely uncomfortable; their infallible father, renowned for his survival skills, unconscious and at the responsibility of his sons. He’d been looked after by the man before. He’d never had to do it for him.

He had to get working. Get his mind off of it.

Techno dug around in a chest. Medical supplies were scattered all over the house in case of emergency. Same with weapons.

They weren’t paranoid, though.

Just cautious.

_ Waiting for blood. _ One voice piped up.

  1. Another agreed solemnly.



He pulled out a pair of tweezers — though they were more like forceps with their size — a roll of bandages, and finally, the sewing kit. Somewhere along the line Tommy had made himself useful and brought water and a mundane potion. The former for washing out the wound, he assumed, and the latter because Phil had taught them well about the effects of potions; especially the sterilizing properties of the mundane potion. Brewed with blaze powder alone it cleared the vial, shimmering in a mesmerizing fashion despite its name.

Techno ran the wound under the water, uncaring for how it soaked the cloth he’d set underneath the hand. When it was sufficiently free of most of the crimson, he poured some of the potion out from the bottle, thankful that he wasn’t awake for at least that part. He knew from experience how it stung; especially in the deep wound that Techno was beginning to realize it was. The cut ran far further down than he would have liked to deal with. It didn’t tear into the nerves or muscle, thank the gods, but it ran along the length of his palm and into his fingers, scraping deep in a way he just knew would be annoying to heal from.

He was vaguely aware of Tommy turning away when he grabbed the forceps, but gave no attention to him. He was singularly focused on removing the shards embedded into his skin. They came out without much trouble, thankfully, but the blood slickly coating them when they were set aside still made him ill. He rinsed the hand again, turning it to check for any pieces he missed before deeming it safe to sterilize once more and wrap.

He leaned back from where he’d been bent over the table, placing his hands on his hips and stretching, sighing at the crack that sounded from his neck as he rolled it. 

“Are you done?” He glanced over to his brother only to see him hiding beneath a cloak he’d grabbed at some point; one of his, if he wasn’t mistaken. At this point, though, they shared most of their things between the family. Very little was sacred in their house.

“Just about.” He nodded. “I just, need to figure out what to do about the whole… fever, thing, now.”

“I think we should get the blood off him too.” Wilbur chimed in. Techno jumped, whirling to face him. He was bent over the table, contemplating their father. The echo was back, the quiet murmuring, though it was still less prominent. “I don’t— I don’t like it.”

He nodded, still coming down from the scare. The scarlet against the blonde hair and unnaturally pale skin made him feel sick himself. The only reason blood should ever be that close to Phil was if he was in battle, tearing through their enemies.

The voices agreed with that, if their frantic sounding of vowels was anything to go by. 

Tommy crept closer, silently tucking himself between his brothers. 

“Why’s he got his wings out? Isn’t that…” 

The ‘not allowed’ went unspoken.

His blood boiled.

_ Dream, Dream, Dream, they’re scared of him, scared, protect, fight, shed blood, make pay, free them. _

_ Patience.  _ He told them. It was coming.

“Yeah.” 

“I don’t know why he’s got them out.” Wilbur gritted out. He sounded angry; again, the whisper had disappeared. He sounded bitter, tone sharp. It was almost as clear as him. He looked more colourful, less blue. Still, the tone he used took Techno aback. He looked to his twin as Tommy did. “Since he can’t use them.”

“Well—“ he exchanged a glance with Techno. He felt just as confused as Tommy looked. “—yeah, those are the rules—“

_ “Literally,  _ can’t use them, Tommy.” He seethed. “Look.” He gestured towards where one of the longer feathers lied tucked beneath his body. Carefully, Techno shifted him so he could see from his own vantage point what had apparently angered Wilbur’s from him.

Tommy sucked in a breath.

Techno stood stock-still.

The bottoms of his flight feathers, the longest ones, were far higher up than Techno remembered them to be. That could have been the contribution of the straight lines across them, edges of his feathers singed and cut so sharply Techno could recognize it instantly as fire aspect. 

Phil’s wings had faded from a dark grey to lighter as far as Techno could remember. At the very bottom, always, there had been a row of clean, primly preened flight feathers. They had extended somewhat into his secondaries, forming a few soft-edged diamonds to bleed into the contrasting darkness.

The white had been cut in half; dangerously close to where the blood lied within their sheaths. Techno would know; he’d spent many nights, unable to sleep, helping Phil preen those back into places. It was a source of pride for him; learning all about the ins and outs of the appendages. A thanks, too. For every time he’d plaited his hair, been there when he couldn’t sleep, saved him from himself and anything else that dared to come between them.

And they were  _ severed. _

Techno saw red.

Literally.

The voices were screaming in his head; he was enabling them, he knew, with his fury, but he could not even fathom constraining them when they were so  _ right,  _ telling him to  _ draw blood, fight, protect, revenge, get him get him get him get the Dream get the traitor get the— _

“Techno?” And Tommy sounded scared and Tommy sounded resigned and Tommy sounded  _ sad _ and Techno broke out of it.

He blinked. The film cleared somewhat.

“Why— who—“ the blonde choked.

“You know who.” Techno laughed without humor, an acrid sound that had him coughing out a dry sob into his arms because  _ fuck _ he couldn’t protect his family, he couldn’t control himself, what the  _ fuck _ was he doing—

“Breathe.” Wilbur reminded him. It was strange; being touched by a ghost; an unreal weight rested upon him but still managed to ground him by proxy of temperature. He hadn’t realized he’d been breathing so harshly, breath catching against the tightness of his throat.

He sucked in a breath and let it out. The repetition of the dual motions had his head clearing further. He sighed, feeling a headache grow between his temples.

He grunted under his breath.

A thank you.

Wilbur only smiled sadly and bumped his head gently against his own. 

An acceptance. 

Tommy was still staring between them and Phil’s wings, lost somewhere in the middle.

Techno shifted, moving between him and the view of the clipped feathers. 

“So he really can’t—“ Tommy broke off into another half-choke. He seemed dispassionate, apathetic, but Techno knew it was just a moment of disassociation before the dams broke. 

“For now, no.” He answered. The response felt heavy and bitter in his mouth. “Next molt, maybe.”

If any of those feathers were old enough to be replaced. 

And.

_ If Dream doesn’t clip them again. _

_ Not going to happen.  _ He snarled back.

“Why?” Tommy sounded crushed. He hated it.

He sounded the exact same as when he had found him, begging for him to not kick him out.

Alone.

Techno opened his arms and watched as Tommy fell into them, hands pressed against his torso. He simply wound his arms around his brother as he shook, enduring the hand slammed against his chest, knowing the emotion wasn’t against him, but commiserating with him. Wilbur wrapped around from behind the blonde. It was incomplete, though, with their father lying bloodied and sickly on the table. 

He pulled away first, though he regretted it when he saw how wrecked the youngest looked, eyes watery and skin flushed.

“I’ll take care of it.” He promised. He locked eyes with Wilbur and tilted his heads towards the stairs.

As always, his twin got the cue.

“I think we go upstairs now.” He clapped, spectral hands emitting a quiet snap. “Come along, Tommy.”

The teen in question didn’t even protest. He just sniffled, walking with the ghost of his brother, guided by a blue-tinted hand upon his back.

When they were gone, he returned his attention to his father. He felt almost betrayed. Why wouldn’t he have trusted him with his secret?

_ Protects, he protects, dadza, dad, knows, he knows about us, e, e— _

The voices were fond of Phil, much like how they were fond of his brothers. They knew him as well as he did.

He knew that he would react this way. 

It didn’t make him feel any better. 

He ran a rag from a drawer under water, wringing it out before he began to run it over his father’s skin, dutifully wiping the blood away as best he could. It came off without much fuss, though the half-dried, tacky bits clung to his hair and face until he rubbed at it a bit more insistently. He ended up pulling the blonde’s hair away from him, so it wasn’t dirtied further. A quick braid was all he could manage, none of the fancy strand-weaving or elegance typical of Phil’s or Wilbur’s plaits.

He still thought it looked alright, though. 

When the blood was washed off, he was looking far more like his usual self.

Except the pensiveness drawn across his face.

Techno ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the counter that held his father, contemplating what to do.

Potions would help his hand heal faster; but the boosts of potions weren’t conducive to healing from sickness. Techno remembered the time Tommy had snuck a potion to deal with a cold. The regeneration had just made his symptoms more problematic, the immune system practically waging war on itself. The strength had done nothing but allow him to move while the effects worsened. He was afraid to try instant health on the basis of that alone; the way Phil hadn’t used it on his sons anyway only added to his reluctance.

Simply put; Techno had no idea how to deal with it.

He let his arms drop to the table, resting across his father’s legs as he bowed his head, wracking his brain.

Breaking the fever was good, he remembered. Phil shivered beneath him.

That was it then. He straightened, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders back before he moved to pick up his father. It was made easier with him being on level ground, higher than his hips. He could do it himself, if with some difficulty. He didn’t want to call his youngest brother down again, when he was so clearly not handling it well.

Not like he was, himself, he admitted, but that didn’t matter. 

He remembered vaguely something about blankets.

More, he assumed, with the shivering. 

He carried his father up the stairs, pausing to gently kick the door to his room open, shifting aside the blankets strewn across the floor. He settled his father in bed, tucking him into the blankets. He stepped back, observing his work. Techno stepped back, grabbing the blankets from the floor and draping them at the end of the bed neatly. If all returned to normal, hopefully those would be incorporated back into his faux-nest. The thought made him smile against the anxiety still quietly bubbling in his chest.

He brushed his hands off against his pajama pants, wincing at how stiff they were. They were soaked dark, like his socks, crusted with blood.

Phil’s blood.

The nausea came back in a rush.

He had to go clean himself of the red, and change.

Then he’d decide what to do next. 

—

The fever had  _ not _ broken, Techno discovered. If anything, it had worsened, because when he had Tommy come in for comparison, the coolness of boy’s forehead was far from the blazing heat of Phil’s. 

He was panicking. 

“—so I put the blankets on because that’s how you break a fever right—“

_ “No.” _ Wilbur interrupted, fixing him with a look. It shone with just a small bit of panic as well. 

_ Uh oh. _ The voices said.

_ Uh oh.  _ Techno thought, dread pooling in him.

“No, no— that’s how you treat hypothermia, probably made the fever worse—“ his twin fretted, worrying with his hands as he spoke, frantic. “—not all sickness is the same, ohhhh.” He groaned.

“Shit, shit— so what do we do, then?” He asked, almost pleading.

“Fuck if I know!” He shouted, throwing his hands up into the air. Or, further into the air, as he was floating rather high. “Oh my gods—“ he cried, voice pitching up.

“We put a cool rag on his forehead, right?” Tommy interrupted them, staring at their father. “That’s what he did for me, at least.”

_ “Brilliant,  _ Tommy, yes.” Wilbur praised him breathily; somehow he had run through his panicked muttering without a single gulp of air. Something he apparently needed even as a ghost. “I’ll go get that.”

He drifted out the door so quickly Techno almost expected to hear feet slap against the stairs; before he realized the reason behind their absence.

“Okay. This is fine.” He exhaled shakily. 

A low groan resonated from the bed. Tommy and Techno glanced at each other before Tommy was stepping forward. 

“Dad?” He asked, crouching down by the side of the bed.

His father rolled onto his side to face the youngest, curling up slightly. Techno watched bleary eyes desperately try to focus, only coming out glassy and fogged. 

He stalked forward as well, settling into his knees. The blonde’s gaze shifted to the newcomer.

_ “Wi’bur?”  _ He breathed, squinting.

“No— I’m not—“ he tried, before a ragged sob interrupted him. A hand tried to creep out from Phil’s side to cup his cheek but landed just short, thumping against the bed softly. 

Techno stared in silent shock at the guilty, wavering smile across his lips, and the welling tears that were beginning to drip down his face. 

“‘M so sorry.” He rasped, lungs rattling. “I sh’d’ve… never killed y’.” Techno was too concerned with the missed syllables to interrupt, clutching at the blankets on the edge of the bed. “My  _ son.  _ Sh’d’ve… killed mys’lf first. Lett’n this happen to’ you. Miss y’u.”

_ Dadza? Hallucinating. He’s not okay. Not okay, not okay, he sees Wilbur, he thinks you’re Wilbur. Dad. _

The thud of a wet cloth hitting the floor went unnoticed.

Phil gasped for air like it had been stolen from him with his confession, pressing the dropped hand against his chest and only curling further in on himself when he coughed harshly.

“Dad—“ Tommy was standing, hands nervously fidgeting like he didn’t know where to put them.

Techno had shot up too, similarly concerned. Wilbur pushed between them — really, there was barely a force; they parted easily, and he could have floated through anyway — putting a hand on their fathers back.

“Hey, hey, don’t say that. It’s me— it’s Wil,” he assured him. He sounded a bit at a loss himself, though a sad smile tugged at his lips. “I forgive you; please, don’t say that— it’s  _ okay.” _

The coughs stopped for a moment, Phil finally looking up again. There was some recognition behind that gaze, Techno knew.

_ “Wil’br.  _ My son. I killed my son. I killed ‘im. Wil’br. My own  _ son—“  _ his fragmented sentences were turning into a mantra croaked under his breath, uninjured hand’s fingers flexing uselessly around his chest. 

_ “Stop,  _ I asked you to; please, don’t cry, no— I  _ wanted  _ to be dead.” Wilbur protested weakly.

The breaths were turning shallower. Techno watched in unconcealed horror.

His breath rattled one more time, eyes rolling back, before the awful chant silenced itself with him.

“I—“ Wilbur faltered, removing himself from the blonde.

“You  _ remember.” _ Tommy accused. “You remember wanting to die. Phil killing you. What  _ else _ do you remember?”

The guilt in his posture was too much for Techno.

“Guys— he’s— dad’s—“

The tension was beginning to deepen between them; the hybrid could already tell based on how red his youngest brother was getting, how shifty his twin was.

“I don’t remember any of it!”

“You’re a lia—“

_ Knock. _

With the noise the voices in his head erupted.

_ Knock? Who, who, e, a, a, who, blood, blood, go. _

Techno stepped towards one of the windows, gently drawing open one of the blinds. It was still so early in the morning; barely a few hours had passed since he’d found his father. He blinked at the light, focusing down on the figure on his porch.

A white mask glinted in the dawning sun.

_ “Shit.”  _ He cursed. “Be quiet. It’s him.”

They both shut up immediately. Tommy’s lips had drawn into a thin, firmly pressed line, while Wilbur had gone still, barely breathing. 

Techno hated that the even reference of Dream wrought that kind of reaction.

“What does he want?” Tommy whispered.

“I don’t know.” Techno shrugged, though the casual emote contrasted his boiling rage. “I’m going to go find out.”

Another quiet moan punctuated his statement.

“Take care of dad. Try to keep him quiet.” He warned, holding a finger to his lips in a pantomime of the action. 

He stalked downstairs, acutely aware of the lack of weaponry or armor on his person. He didn’t have the time to put it on; he did have the time, though, to snag a blue cloak from where it had been slung over a chair, pulling it around himself in at least some bare hope of making himself more respectable. His sword was easily grabbed as well, though it had to be situated in his belt loop instead of hooked on an actual scabbard.

He opened the door when Dream was about to cast his second knock.

“What do I owe the visit to.” Techno drawled. He shifted, faux-casual. He let his eyes wander behind Dream, pretend-dismissive in the face of his enemy.

Every vein and voice in him was thrumming with rage.

“I was hoping we could chat!” The man grinned. His face was covered but Techno could hear the wide smile in his voice. He arched a brow.

“And why would I want that.” He deadpanned.

“Well; it’d be one traitor to another.” Dream finished. His tone was sharp enough to cut himself on it. He hated being interrupted, Techno knew.

“About?

“Gods, do you hate people that much? Has to be lonely, living by yourself out here.” Dream craned his neck to look into his home. The rosette forced himself not to stiffen, to stay relaxed against the doorframe. “Huh. Your table is pretty bloody there! Given up your pacifist thing already?”

“Beef.” Techno responded simply. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Good choice. But, fine. You’re no fun. Let me know when you’re ready to come and cause a little chaos.” Dream pivoted sleekly, before pausing. Techno waited, itching for the man to leave.

“Say,” he turned his head over his shoulder with a predatory grace that had him immediately on edge. “have you seen Philza around recently?”

“Can’t say I have.” Techno grunted, mincing his words. “Hasn’t been around in a bit. Need him for something?”

“Ah, something like that! We have an appointment that I think it’s about time for.” Dream waved him off. “I’ll see you around, Technoblade.”

_ Appointment, wings, grow, molt, fire, singe, cut. _

_ Hate. _

“Seeya’.” He responded simply. He watched him toss a pearl, keeping the door open until he saw him teleport away, despite the cold biting at his ankles.

He closed the door and sunk down against its back, stiff muscles only relaxing minutely.

His words were ringing in his ears, incessant.

“Fuck.” He groaned.

—

“What did he want?” Tommy pressed the question against him before he could even enter the room, jumping up from where he’d been standing by the doorway.

“Wanted to talk, or something,” he paused, grimacing. “Wanted to know where Phil was. Wanted to… “ he struggled for any way to phrase it. “...clip his wings, again, I think.”

“They’ve grown in some.” Wilbur observed quietly. He had been so still and silent Techno had barely noticed him, hunched over the form of their father. Said blonde had the compress against his forehead, a few blankets dragged off of him and his heavier tunic replaced by one of his black shirts. “Probably why. Since he’s been here, and all.”

The echo was almost entirely gone, once again. Techno had to wonder if it was due to the outburst that had happened just before he’d left to talk to the hunter, or if the exaggerated voice had been for show. He didn’t seem so naively innocent anymore. He seemed guilty, but accepting of it. Tranquil.

“That’s a good thing, then.” He sighed.

“He didn’t … ask about me?” Tommy ventured. It was a mix of hope and relief. The former part of it disgusted Techno.

_ “No.” _ He said firmly. “He’s not your friend, Tommy. Never was.”

“No, no, ‘course not.” He mumbled back. He hated that he seemed crestfallen about it.

Techno needed to change the subject.

“He woken up again yet?” He gestured towards the bed.

“Once.” Wilbur replied. While they’d been talking he’d drifted towards the headboard of the bed, toying with one of the discarded blankets. He shifted it in a routine motion, almost rhythmic. He recognized it, vaguely. 

_ Oh. _

_ Braid, he’s braiding, Wilbur. Why? Can’t touch. Wilbur. Ghostbur. Ghost. Dead. Death, death, blood, e, blood for the blood god— _

“Want to teach me how to braid? He blurted out.

It was worth it to see the slightly shocked expression break out on his twin’s face. Before he smiled. He patted the bed beside him. Techno slipped off the cloak that had been hanging over him, getting on the bed quietly so as to not disturb his resting father with the shift in weight.

His hastily-made braid had come undone. It looked sad, even compared to the work Wilbur had done on a tasseled blanket. He picked up the blonde strands, idly combing his fingers through it. He remembered his father doing similar, on nights when he felt sick— taking his fingers and running them through his hair, twisting it gently into a braid that took the pressure of his scalp, touching him without disturbing him.

The memory made his heart ache.

“Okay— so now you take that and put ‘em into three strands; yeah, yeah just like that.” Wilbur murmured, smiling. The motions were a bit hard to pick up; they made more sense when his twin’s phantom hands rested on top of his. Even though they could barely interact — oh, Wilbur could touch objects fine, but when it came to people, he passed right through — there was a gentle weight where there should have been none, ghosting over his fingers and guiding them to the correct position.

The three strands crossed.

Pick up one, weave it over, pick up the other, tuck it in, repeat. The rhythmic motions were uninterrupted even when Tommy clambered up behind Techno.

When he had gotten the gist of it, Wilbur moved behind the eldest to instruct the youngest.

Techno relaxed at the feeling of fingers carding through his hair again; even if they were inexperienced, clumsy, not so used to the motions like those of the eldest blonde and brunette.

There was rhythm to it. A pattern.

Something they desperately needed. 

He felt drowsy. The familiarity of the situation wasn’t lost to him. He was together, with his brothers, and his father, despite the circumstances. At some point he’d slunk onto the mattress, arms stretched in front of him, Phil’s braid finished and Tommy lying on top of him to finish the significantly longer — and a bit messier — plait.

He relaxed into the bed, resisting the urge to sneeze as a feather tickled his nose.

A gentle snore came from behind him.

He turned his head as best as he could to look at his snoozing younger brother, resisting a yawn himself. He couldn’t very well get up; he was tired, waking up so early in the morning, and his brother was asleep on top of him. 

He let his head fall back down.

A soft laugh interrupted his reverie.

“Shut up and get over here.” Techno grumbled. He barely moved to pick up the edge of a blanket.

Wilbur stared.

He lifted it higher, nudging the corner towards him with a meaningful look.

He understood, apparently, because he slipped beneath the cover, even if it floated a bit above the rest of them. 

“Hmm.” He hummed, eyes drooping.

“Hmmm indeed.” Wilbur laughed again, quiet.

“Sh’up and go to sleep.”

“Okay, Techno.” A grin.

“G’night, Wil.”

“Goodnight.”

—

Techno wasn’t sure how long he had slept for; maybe around four hours, since the sun was far past its midpoint. He squinted at the ray of light that shone through where he’d opened the blinds before. He felt warm; almost uncomfortably so, but not quite. A weight still rested on his back. More than he remembered. He looked to find a wing tossed over them, haphazardly. The blanket Wilbur had used clung to him and his brother as well, discarded from its original position. 

Techno wiggled to get out from where he’d been entrapped, careful to not wake the youngest. He’d always been a heavy sleeper; but since Dream, he’d become uncomfortably aware.

Techno hated it.

But it was too early (late?) for those thoughts after he’d just woken up. Muffled cursing from below caught his ears as he stretched, slipping off the bed. He snuck down the stairs to investigate, eyes widening at the sight before him. He grinned.

“What’cha doing, Wil?” He asked, moving all the way down to the bottom of the bottom of the steps. The look he shot in return was downright nasty. 

“Cooking.” He replied stiffly.

“Cooking _what?_ _Ash?”_ Techno asked, incredulous. In a pot on the furnace was something going up in flame, his brother desperately trying to snuff it.

“Soup!” He cried, finally managing to suffocate the fire. “I was making soup!”

“I think soup is supposed to be at least  _ some  _ parts liquid.” He commented, stepping forward to peer into the pot. “I’m pretty sure that’s… not right.”

“No kidding.” He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I messed up, Tech’.”

“I see that.” He grabbed the pot by the handles, marching out the door and dumping it outside. “Let’s start over. Water first, I think.”

“You can make soup?” Wilbur questioned, surprised. 

“I can make stew.” Techno shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

Around thirty minutes of scuffling and swearing later, their concoction was bubbling onto the snow next to the pile of ash.

“That was  _ not _ food.” Wilbur panted. “Did you make a fucking _ potion— _ why would you put  _ potion ingredients in it?!”  _ He cried, throwing his hands up.

“I never said I was good at it! I just, can make it!”

“Oh my gods, this is why Phil never let us cook unsupervised.”

“Why do you think I only eat carrots and potatoes?!”

They exchanged a look before they were laughing, Wilbur pitching up to a high cackle and Techno chuckling so hard it made his throat hurt. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Tommy squinted from the top of the stairs, blanket wrapped around him like a cape.

“We’re making soup.” 

“I can make a mean soup.” Tommy proclaimed. “Phil made it all the time. How hard can it be.”

Twin looks shot between the brothers.

“Let’s start over. Again.” 

Techno groaned.

“We’re running out of  _ ingredients!” _

The soup was coming together fine, actually. Somehow, Techno’s experience in making something thick, Wilbur’s ability to pick out the necessary items, and Tommy’s overeagerness to add elements — namely, water — it had turned into a broth, full of vegetables in place of noodles. Namely because they had used anything even remotely close to noodles after the first two attempts. 

Techno had been the one to proclaim it edible; however, Tommy hadn’t trusted that classification and had tried it himself. He concluded the same thing.

“It’s not,  _ great, _ but it’s soup!” Techno announced the most positive thing to be said about their culinary attempts in the afternoon. 

“It’s soup!” His brothers agreed.

“Soup, huh?” Phil grinned at them tiredly from the top of the stairs. “Wouldn’t mind some of that myself.”

“Dad!” Tommy dropped the ladle with a clatter, rushing up the steps only to nearly tackle him down from where he’d clutched the railing. Techno saw the way he rocked back from the impact, even though Tommy was holding himself back, eyes glazing slightly and knuckles going white on the railing. His wings were gone, Techno realized belatedly, tucked away wherever they went when his father hadn’t summoned them.

Wilbur seemed to see it too, since he spoke up first.

“You should be in bed.” He gestured slightly to where he was cradling his hand against his stomach, careful of the cut. 

“Smelled something burning. Wanted to make sure you were alright.” He blinked a few times, smiling.

Tommy released him carefully, eyeing him up and down. 

“You’re kind of swaying, big man— maybe you should—“

“Swaying?” Techno echoed aloud, staring at him. “Phil…” 

“‘M fine, mate. More worried about you lot.”

Techno was unconvinced. He stepped up the stairs, moving past Tommy and hooking an arm underneath Phil’s own.

“Either you lay down and rest down here or you lay down and rest up there.” Techno offered drily.

Phil shook his head, letting out a sigh of exasperation, before he inclined his head down. Techno sighed too, before moving to help him down the steps. Tommy took a hold of his shoulder, careful not to jostle his hand.

“Boys, please, I’m not your grandmum’s china—“

“Doubt it. You’re shaking.” Tommy interrupted, smugness belied by the concern Techno could hear in his voice. 

Phil shut his mouth at that one, which the hybrid counted as a partial win. 

Techno guided him gently to the couch, letting him settle into place before he released him. Phil sat up, cocking a brow at his glare. Insistently, he pushed back at his shoulders until he was at least somewhat reclined against the armrest.

“Happy now?” His father asked. 

“Not yet.” He shook his head, resting the back of his hand against his forehead. Tommy, knowing the drill, snuck up to him so Techno could compare. “You’re still hot.” Techno accused.

“Not feelin’ like it.” Phil grinned back.

“You—“ Techno struggled with his words, a righteous irritation rising up from his belly. “—I was so worried about you, you know. You were at the bottom of the steps, lying in a pool of your  _ own blood _ and burning like the Nether. How are you so fucking  _ calm?!  _ You’re  _ smiling about it!” _

Phil’s grin faded into something gentler, more thoughtful.

“Listen, Tech’. I’ve taken care of myself before. Lived through worse.” He assured him. “You didn’t need to do this for me; or be concerned. But you did, and I’m grateful for it. Certainly sped things up a bit.” He chuckled weakly. “I just need a bit of rest and I’ll be good.

“You hallucinated me. When you saw Techno.” Wilbur spoke up, tone wavering. “I wouldn’t call that good.”

“You brought out your  _ wings.  _ Wings I haven’t seen since you joined the server.” Tommy brought it up, almost desperate-sounding.

The mention of the wings sent a whole new fury through him.

“When were you going to tell me?” Techno asked. Ice was snaking through his veins, chilling him to the bone. “That’s not— that’s not  _ unimportant.  _ If I thought you had your wings and I asked you to go— fly, and— and you  _ couldn’t,  _ what would I do.” He choked at the idea. “You and Wil and Tommy are the only people I have left. You’re my  _ dad,  _ for gods sake. And you just let that green bastard cut them. Without telling  _ any _ of us.”

Phil frowned, opening his mouth to protest. 

He couldn’t.

“I’m— I’m sorry.” Phil sighed. “I just wanted to keep you from doing anything rash. I would do  _ anything  _ to protect you all.” He said firmly. “That includes letting him…  _ trim _ my wings. That won’t  _ ever _ change.”

The silence felt heavy in the room.

He could hear the snow falling outside.

“Why not let us take care of you, for once?” Tommy whispered. It seemed that he, too, was afraid to break the quiet, because it was barely audible under his breath. “You do so much for us. Why can’t we do this for you?”

“I’m your father. It’s my responsibility.”

“And we’re your sons.” Wilbur asserted. “And we  _ love you.”  _ He continued, more quietly.  _ “I _ love you. And I forgive you.” He added. “Not that you needed forgiving in the first place.”

A sniffle.

“Fuck—“ his father wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his uninjured arm, smiling sadly. “—gods. What did I do to get boys like you.”

The anger melted as soon as it appeared. Towards his father, at least. The rage brewing towards Dream still burned bright; but the warmth that befell them was a bit more insistent. 

He surprised himself by being the first to go for a hug. He collapsed by the side of the couch, throwing his arms on his father, ignoring the small  _ ‘oof’ _ that came with impact. Tommy was next, of course, following suit. His twin was the last, hesitantly curling into his side. 

His uninjured hand stroked through his hair. He melted into the touch, burying his face into his father’s side. 

“I liked the braid.” He muttered. Techno only laughed, his chuckle a little wet and teary. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

—

The soup was cold, but easily reheated. It retained the exact same properties as when it was first made. Techno wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Phil seemed to like it, though, so that was good enough. He also wasn’t sure if that was just the love for his sons disguising the taste or not. Years of eating golden-coated carrots and raw potatoes had distorted his tastes a bit.

The hug-pile had lasted for a bit before they’d sent Phil back up to his room; he’d complained of a curfew, but eventually relented when his cough returned viciously. Techno knew that despite the protests of his father that he ‘didn’t need a babysitter’, Wilbur was outside his door, probably writing in the notebook he’d brought to the job.

He’d sent Tommy out as well; to collect the scutes of the turtles he’d been cultivating.

He sharpened his sword idly, staring out the window. 

He had a job to do.

—

“And if you  _ ever _ come near my family again,” Techno panted. “I will  _ not _ be so merciful.”

The man beneath his heel had gone eerily silent when the blade he’d been holding had been stolen and pointed at his throat. Being beaten in combat would do that to one, Techno supposed. Not that he would know.

The thought made the voices in his head shout with glee.

He grinned with bloody teeth.

The man nodded slowly.

“Get out of here.” He snarled. “Don’t come back.”

Dream slowly, cautiously rose. Techno allowed him to grab a single enderpearl from where it had rolled into the snow. He watched as he threw it and disappeared.

He laughed to the spruce trees. They shook in the wind, giving him his due applause.

—

“They’re grown out.” Phil argued, a few days later.

“Not a problem.” Techno responded brusquely, flipping to the next page on his book. 

“Techno— I don’t like it either, but it’s the rules of his world; I can’t go disobeying him even if I wanted to.”

“It’s not disobeying him, anymore.” Techno could barely contain his smirk, setting his book pages-down in his lap. He knew he had to look manic, eyes gleaming with hidden knowledge.

Tommy stopped where he’d been braiding Phil’s hair opposite of Techno, dropping the strands.

“You didn’t.” He exhaled, but it was elated.

“I did.” He grinned. “Let’s say; he’s not going to be enforcing those rules when it comes to us. Unless he wants to get ass kicked again.”

“Techno. Please say you did not fight Dream.”

“I fought Dream.”

_ “Techno!  _ He’s the  _ owner _ of the world—“

“I won.” Techno bared his teeth in a self-satisfied smile. “That means you can fly, Phil.”

He paused in his protests, processing.

“I…” he trailed off.

Techno knew he’d won when after Tommy had finished up the short braid, Phil had stood and walked to the door, stepping outside.

Wilbur floated along beside his brothers, who’d crept to the front of the house. 

Techno watched Phil inhale. Take a breath.

He watched as he exhaled and wings sprouted from his back, instantly unfolding to their full length. Techno could have shouted with glee at the way the feathers had grown out, white contrasting with grey the way it had always meant to be. 

Before he could even take it in, Phil was in the air. He grabbed their cloaks and shoved the three of them outside, pulling his brother’s hoods up as he did his own. The whoop of elation piercing the skies made it all the more worth standing out in the cold.

He looked to his siblings, red-nosed but grinning ear to flushed ear. 

_ Friends. Family. Brothers. Son. Father. _ The voices chanted.

Techno whooped once, delighting in the cry back it elicited.

Techno felt warm.

**Author's Note:**

> *pounding my fists against table* dadza angst dadzA anGST daDZA ANGST DADZA ANGST
> 
> yes I write a lot of it because sometimes I feel like people forget about the dad dynamic which I love. speaking of; phew, you seen those streams? giving me Ideas.
> 
> if you enjoyed, please consider commenting or requesting here or on my request book! :D
> 
> as always, wherever you are, have a nice day. <3


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